


To Sustain

by spirogyra



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Torture, minor bodily functions, minor vomiting, vague humiliation related to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirogyra/pseuds/spirogyra
Summary: "I live as long as Whitestone lives."Hindsight makes the statement inspiring rather than a prophecy of doom.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sustain (verb):  
> 1\. to bear (a burden, charge, etc.).  
> 2\. to undergo, experience, or suffer (injury, loss, etc.); endure without giving way or yielding.  
> 3\. to keep (a person, the mind, the spirits, etc.) from giving way, as under trial or affliction.  
> 4\. to keep up or keep going, as an action or process  
> 5\. to confirm or corroborate, as a statement.

He hears footfalls in the hallway outside his workshop and immediately knows he's late for dinner. Without waiting for word, Percy starts cleaning up so that perhaps he can appear in time for dessert. That might make the tongue-lashing from his mother slightly less severe.

He carefully sets aside his tools, puts away the project he's working on, and turns to stand.

The door to the workshop slams fully shut, and there's the sound of scraping from the outside.

Percy stares for a long moment, brows drawn together in puzzlement, before he goes to the door and attempts to push it open. It doesn't move. He shoves again, harder this time, but still the door doesn't move; it's braced from the other side. And it's no accident because this door has no lock.

Someone has locked him in.

"Hello? Julius, this isn't funny." Percy knocks loudly on the door before waiting to hear something from his brother. Certainly Vesper wouldn't be behind this. "Julius, I need to go up to dinner." He pauses again, but hears nothing. This time, he pounds on the door with the side of his fist while simultaneously trying to push it with his shoulder.

Nothing.

The confusion gives way to anger and concern. This feels like something more than a joke, but he doesn't know why exactly. Percy just knows that he needs to be out of this room immediately, if only to find his brother (or sister) waiting and holding in laughter. But nothing he does, no pushing, no pounding, no yelling, gets the door open, and finally Percy returns to his workstool to sit.

He waits, watching the door at the start, but after an unknown amount of time where his back starts to bother him, he turns away. Efforts to continue his work are pointless; he can't concentrate at all on it, and he might be doing more harm than good by even having it out. He ends up just pushing it all aside, carelessly, and putting his head down on his arms.

The wall, its dull stone, is not especially interesting, but there's little else to focus on outside the hiss of the forge and the sound of his own pulse. Percy's mind runs through countless possibilities of what is happening, why he's trapped, but with no basis to work off of, the ideas range from the most mundane to the completely outrageous.

His dreams, after being lulled to sleep by the warmth of the room and the worried boredom, are chaotic and indistinct.

The sudden slam of the workshop door makes his entire body jerk, his hand scattering his project and tools across the floor as his head snaps up. With his vision blurred by sleep and the glasses hanging off one ear, Percy stares at the figure in the doorway bathed by shadow. A single incoherent sound of confusion leaves his mouth before the figure strides forward and grabs his arm in a steel grip.

At this distance, in the low light of open forge and the dying lamp, Percy can identify Sir Stonefell, the Briarwoods' man. He looked taciturn and unfriendly before, but now he comes openly as an enemy; it's too late for Percy to try to escape him.

"Don't fight, boy. Don't make me hurt you more than I need to." The man chuckles darkly as they start down the hallway, away from the workshop and toward….

Percy's blood runs cold, and every muscle in his body locks so he's being dragged along.  "What-"

"You're going to be answering questions if you know what's good for you, so you might as well save your breath."

Percy does. He is terrified as he's taken to the dungeon.

***

The cells of Whitestone castle are cool and dry, mostly dark because the only light are torches at the ends of the hall, well out of reach of any prisoner, and devoid of comfort. There's not even a pile of old straw; it's just a stone box that Percy sits in now, silently chewing on his thumbnail.

It's bloody now, him having gnawed it to the quick, then bit back the cuticle to healthy flesh, and still he works on it, because the screaming has stopped. The screaming has stopped and he is the only person in these cells.

He's next, to become one of those people screaming, he knows it.

And he is, but he waits, and with every hour he sits in the cell, the more ill he becomes. The voice of the screamer was unknown to him, but if he's there, surely his siblings… or his mother. His father at some point must have….

Percy dry heaves in the corner and tries to hold back the sickened tears. Whether he's successful or not, it hardly matters to him as he sits in the opposite corner, shivering against the cold stone, as he waits.

***

It's a chair, nothing sinister or out of the ordinary, and somehow that makes him more afraid as he's forced to sit in it. Percy winces as his wrists are wrenched behind him, under the arms of the chair, and shackles are put on him.

That might be tolerable, and it makes sense, but it doesn't stop there. Of course it doesn't.

The ring around his neck is almost too tight, pulling the short hair on the back of his neck as it's snapped shut. The chain drawn through pulls his wrists up and his head back so all Percy can see is the ceiling and already his shoulders ache. There are no further restraints used, unnecessary in this position. He gurgles in weak protest.

"I'll relieve the pressure," a new voice says, "when you've told me what I want to know." But the voice, a woman, stays well behind him so he can't see her at all when she asks, "What do you know about the structure beneath the castle?"

Words get caught by the pressure on his throat, and with tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, Percy can only shake his head. His mind races though, trying to puzzle through what she means. Structure? The dungeons? The crypt? Those all existed long before he was born; why would he-

The chain jerks, and for a brief moment of blinding panic, he is being strangled and his automatic struggles only make it worse.

"The structure, boy. Tell me what you know about it."

There is the sudden release of pressure, and Percy gasps for air even though his shoulders are starting to experience pins and needles.

"The structure."

"I don't know," he rasps out between gulps of air and convulsive swallowing. "I don't know what you mean."

The pressure returns, but not the choking force; this is the simple extreme discomfort, and hopefully his arms will become numb soon. It'll be hell after, if there is an after, but it will help in the moment.

"I know you're a smart boy; I've been through your things," the mysterious woman says in a politely conversational manner. "I have a head for the sciences myself, you see. So please, let's be reasonable and we can be done here. Just tell me what I need to know."

Percy's eyes dart around the ceiling, unseeing, as he hunts for something,  _ anything _ , in his memory that could be what she wants. There's nothing though. "The crypts-" he begins, and is cut off by a jerk from the chain.

"Not. The crypts." There is a heavy, disappointed sigh. "We're going to have to take this further now, and you have only yourself to blame."

Something hard slammed across the front of his right knee, followed shortly by something coming down with brutal force on his left foot, undoubtedly splintering bone.

The screams that echo through dungeon are his this time.

***

The damage is healed, but the pain lingers. Whether that pain is real or a memory, it feels the same as Percy lays on the stone floor of the cell. His mind separates, the pain at the forefront, but at the back it is still attempting to figure out the secret beneath the castle. If only he could tell her something, things would be fine.

The pain works its fingers through though, making it impossible for him to remember the books he's read, the history of Whitestone, the history of his family, the history of….

The history of….

There is cold blood congealing in his boot.

His shoulders hurt in a way he has never quite experienced before.

To add insult to injury and misery, they took his glasses.

Percy curls into himself, trying to remember.

The history of….

Darkness.

***

The pain wakes him as he's hauled to his feet by his arm, and a feeble cry escapes his mouth.

"I told you, Percival, that you just needed to tell me what I wanted to know, and you haven't done that. Perhaps I haven't been respecting you enough, treating you too much like a child. I know you are smarter than your siblings, maybe even your parents, so you have to realize how much this frustrates me."

_ A memory, of the summer, in the forest before he shut himself away in the library or workshop, his brother there. Golden sunlight breaking through the tall pines, Julius' hair more bronze than black as he stood in it. _

_ "Being smart doesn't mean you get away with everything. You have to be smart at being smart." _

_ He says this while aiming his bow, looking down the nocked arrow at the target set up between the trees. "You might be able to talk your way out of things with Mother, but Father won't stand for it." _

_ Julius looses the arrow; it flies straight and true, hitting the target dead center. With a satisfied smile, he turns and looks at Percy. "Trust me, I know." _

_ Percy nods. He trusts and believes his brother, even if he's smarter. Because he has to be smart about being smart. _

Percy's head is rocked by a slap, and he is jerked away from that warm, idyllic forest back to the dungeon. With his head bowed, he mouths silently,  _ smart at being smart _ . "Sorry," he says aloud, barely.

That seems to have helped, if only a fraction. "Good. Glad to see you haven't forgotten your manners." The woman

_ Ripley. Anna Ripley. Doctor Anna Ripley. Professor Anders had introduced them. Professor Anders. _

Must gesture, because she doesn't speak, but he's being dragged along, feet stumbling, right leg collapsing with every step.

Professor Anders. Hot rage, an unknown thing, builds in Percy's chest, and as he's pushed down in the same chair,the scowl that formed during the short trip is knocked away by a thunderous fist.

"Are you paying attention?" Ripley stands in front of him, crouches down to get in his eyeline. "The castle. Not your dead ancestors or their trinkets.  _ Beneath _ ."

With both anger and fear, Percy's chest is heaving as blood dribbles from his cut lip. "I-I've read every book in the library. None of them say anything about-"

Another punch, this one to the temple, and consciousness swims in and out as the world tilts around him.

Ripley's hands are cool and smooth when she tilts his chin up. "An inadequate answer, Percival. I expect better." She lets his chin drop, then steps away.

It's a quick shot to his gut that makes him bend forward, heaving, followed by an uppercut that sends him to the floor, followed booted feet striking him in the ribs repeatedly that makes the world remain soft, blurry, distant. Percy believes his eyes are open, but he's not entirely sure because he's had dream like this before, where he can see the room while his eyes are closed and-

A coppery gurgle is drawn forth when his body is flipped over, no care given for the tender state of his ribs now. With his head lolling to one side, he pushes the blood gathering in his mouth out with his tongue, and feels it run down his cheek.

Those cool hands touch his face, pressing uncomfortably, then over his ribs. Percy twitches feebly from the pain, hardly able to lift his hand off the floor in an attempt to fight it off.

"He's fine. Save the healing," Ripley says.

"Maybe he doesn't know anything," a rough voice says, probably the owner of the fists and boots.

"The Briarwoods have given me another day before I'm to begin my own research. After that…." She paused. "I may have a use for him."

***

"...am the professional here. You are only here because I want you to be. One hour is enough."

"I know men, and if you push too hard he will  _ physically  _ give out. There is only so much-"

"He's young. Ah, see? He's waking up now."

An unimpressed grunt.

"Get him up."

It's not exactly a grinding feeling, and Percy understands what she meant by saving the healing, but every movement of his torso is pain. Nothing's broken, but nothing feels good as he's lifted and put back into the chair.

Before he's recovered, before the pain's faded at all, the wrist and neck shackles are re-applied. The chain is taut enough to keep his hands down, but not so much that it pulls his head back, and it's even more ominous than before.

This is something she wants him to see coming.

"Now, Percival. You understand that this will continue, don't you? You understand that I am not someone afraid of getting my hands dirty? You understand that you will be in pain and it will not stop?" She's in front of him, hands clasped behind her back as she watches him with a cool, unemotional gaze.

Maybe hope had nestled somewhere inside him, hiding, that there was an end that he could actually reach, where all this would stop, but it is snuffed out in an instant. "Yes," he answers quietly. "I understand." And he succumbs to the knowledge that he will die suffering, but at least that death will be a mercy.

"Then tell me about the stone."

Percy looks up, confused momentarily. "The stone?"

"This castle is built on, built  _ with _ . Tell me what you know about it." There is a small table behind Ripley that she leans against as she crosses her arms.

The stone. He never worked with it, no use for it. Lived within it all his life, and only knew it for its color. Perhaps that should have been a clue, but he'd never traveled, never saw other mountains  _ not _ made of-

"Nothing then?" Ripley sounds disappointed, but only superficially. "I didn't want to go to these extremes, but you've given me little choice."

"I was trying to remember!" Percy says in desperation, even though he has no answer. "I was trying!"

"Indeed." But she's not paying attention to him now, moving off to his right, just behind him to get out of his line of sight. There's a noise, several somethings hitting a metal bowl, and that's when the heat at his back finally hits Percy's awareness. He tenses, unable to move beyond straining the tendons in his neck as Ripley stands in front of him again.

It's just a rod she's holding, handle wrapped in leather, bare end glowing angry yellow. "Tell me everything you know about this damnable castle and the mountain it's built on." There is no mistaking her tone now: she's done with the games. "Tell me!"

Percy can't take his eyes off the end of the rod as it comes closer to the open collar of his shirt, to the sensitive flesh of his throat, just beneath the metal of the collar. "I don't know. Really, I don't know!"

"I will burn a hole straight through the back of your neck, do you hear me? Do you?!"

It's close enough to feel the heat, and all it takes is for a single touch with hardly any force behind it to make him scream.

_ He's making delicate copper coils; this is his third one, and he's got the process down. Each one is smaller than his little finger, and they all need to be the same size. He's holding the tube in one hand, take the heated copper wire with his tongs in the other, and without thinking, pinches the wire against the tube. An instant of that heat and he drops everything, immediately going to stick his hand into his bucket of water. A single moment of carelessness and- _

Water is splashed in his face and he lifts his head.

"I expected better from someone used to working with dangerous materials. More used to injury, more used to burns." Ripley is there, but without the metal rod. She tsks. "Children. Of such limited use." No rod, but a knife this time. It looks sharp, but rather pedestrian, strictly functional.

If there weren't still the burning of his skin that penetrated down to his throat, Percy might have been more worried about the knife's edge sliding against his skin, the tip following the line of his sternum. It slips down between the two halves of his shirt, catches briefly at each button before removing it.

"The neck is fine, but a very small space," Ripley explains as she puts the knife away in her belt, and pulls open Percy's shirt fully. A gesture with her hand, and her "assistant" brings her the rod. "Get his feet, would you? I don't want to deal with the kicking."

It's a token effort at restraining his legs, just ropes tied loosely around his ankles and the legs of the chair; anything that haphazard makes Percy believe what is to come will be that much worse.

And as the rope is tightened around his left ankle, it is. The rod comes down, straight across his stomach, swung hard like a sword and left to sizzle against his skin. The hit, right in his solar plexus, knocks the wind from him which makes the follow-up scream come out as a forceful, gasping wheeze for about three seconds before he gets his wind back.

The leg thing makes sense now because both his arms and legs go tense, fighting futilely against his bonds.

Ripley's voice reaches him from very far away. "That would be a lovely mark to leave, but I suspect you would get an infection."

They're words, yes, but Percy doesn't understand them, can't put the sounds to meaning. It's just pain engulfing him, pushing everything else out of his mind. He couldn't tell anyone his own name if asked.

A thought came to him though, not lessening the pain but settling next to it: did they do this to his mother? Did Anders doom her to this kind of treatment?

That rage again, and this time it did start to drown out the pain, where his thoughts become more clear, and through his gasping and the tears in his eyes he focuses on Ripley. Yes, she is causing him pain, and hers is a face he'll never forget, but given the opportunity Anders will have the life choked out of him by Percy's own hands.

"You're angry now?" Ripley asks, almost curiously. "Hm." She nods to herself with no other indication as to how she feels about the observation, and turns around to the small table. "Is it me?" Her tone is conversational as she does something out of Percy's line of sight. "Or someone else that you're suddenly so furious with?"

As she turns back, there is a glimpse of a small book, like a journal, and a quill.

"The Briarwoods? I wouldn't blame you, certainly. Or…." Very slowly her lips curve into a grin, an expression of dark pleasure. "Anders, isn't it?" And she sees something, some miniscule reaction that Percy isn't even aware of, because Ripley nods again, but doesn't say anything else about it.

There is a period where Percy's anger fades and his worry escalates, the fear over what will happen next to him, where Ripley leaves the room, and what can he do? He struggles feebly, not expecting any results, but the idea worms its way into his mind that if he doesn't struggle it then looks like this is something he wants.

Giving Ripley ideas is the last thing he wants.

But struggling just makes his wounds cause him further pain, leaving him sweating and panting. There simply isn't a way for him to escape from this, not in his current condition, not with the way his arms and hands are secured. Distantly, because it's not an actual concern at the moment, he can feel something tickling the heel of his right hand. His fingers are tingling, slowly edging into numbness while his shoulders throb and pulse with spikes of sharp pain.

"What did you do?" Ripley asks from behind, sounding like a lovingly disappointed mother. "You're bleeding, Percival. You've opened your wounds again."

The touch of her fingers on the skin of his wrist makes Percy bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from crying out.

"These are quite tight, aren't they?"

She tugs on them, and Percy tenses, his muscles quivering.

"It's all right," she assures him. "You can beg; I won't hold it against you." She encircles his wrist right above the shackle and squeezes.

The breath explodes from Percy's lungs as a wheezing cry. "Please. Please." He doesn't even know what he wants exactly, maybe just the mercy of unconsciousness. Something, anything to escape this agony, no matter how temporary that escape might be.

As Ripley's hand opens, relieving the pain slightly, it slides up his arm to his shoulder. Briefly she digs her fingers in hard, finding the space between the bones, where the soft tissue is most irritated. "Percival," she says softly, "tell me what you want, the way a noble would."

His teeth are clenched, eyes squeezed shut, and words are far away from him at the moment, let alone protocol taught to him by his parents. But he does know one thing: "Make it stop," he forces out.

There's a long moment of silence before Ripley removes her hand.

Percy takes a breath, almost of relief, before she says, "Is it warmed up again?" His eyes open wide, and this time the glowing rod is coming directly toward his face, and he doesn't think it's his imagination that it's going for his eye. "No, please! I don't know!"

It comes closer with no indication his words matter.

"I don't know! I don't know!" Percy jerked, his entire body screaming at once with pain, but his eyes don't leave the torture implement coming toward him. "I don't know anything!"

At the last second, it swerves and it hits the soft part of his cheek, just below the bone.

The intensity of the pain ushers him, thankfully, into darkness.

***

"...asking him questions he can't answer."

"Lord and Lady Briarwood-"

"Have their concerns, which I am working on."

Percy doesn't open his eyes, only listens, but it's as if he's at a great distance and removed from his body.

"But I can easily divide my time."

He hates her voice.

"Bring him."

His unconsciousness isn't feigned, and he can't pretend anyway when he is dragged to his feet because the pain makes him cry out against his will. She talks to him, but the words are lost in the waves of agony consuming him.

"If you show me the proper respect, I can arrange a little comfort. How does that sound?"

He is dropped in the chair once more, and the jarring of his body makes Percy suck in a ragged gasp as his hands clench. Comfort…. He doesn't even know what that is.

A slap, hard, across the right cheek, then fingers digging into his cheeks to lift his head. "Do you understand?"

Percy works his mouth, no sound coming out, as the fingers squeeze more to cause the burn on his cheek to begin throbbing anew. "Yes," he forces out, and feels exhausted from speaking that single word.

But the hand doesn't stop. The thumb slides up, under the frames of his glasses, to press at the corner of his eye. "Excuse me? I didn't hear you." The nail picks at his eyelid.

Panic bestows a burst of strength, enough for him to blurt out, however slurred, "Yes, ma'am!"

"Good boy."

***

Cassandra slips out her door into the silence of the hallway. Even though this is her home, it feels foreign now, like she is a visitor in this silent place. The few guards around, placed at all the exterior doors, ignore her except for the eyes. They watch, but make no noise and no movement as she stares longingly at the doors, at escape.

Questions had been asked of her, in sweet tones, by Lady Briarwood, questions that made no sense. When her only answer was a shake of the head, the woman patted her on the shoulder and thanked her before locking the door to her room.

That first day was terrifying, but after that, her door remained unlocked and food was brought to her. There was no further appearance by either of the Briarwoods, nor of any of her family.

_ Because they're dead. _

Nightmares kept her from sleep, and as she walks through the halls, she feels like she's becoming a ghost herself. She thinks maybe she wants to be one, to be dead like the rest of her family; Cassandra doesn't want to live here without them, alone.

Afraid.

She remembers, though, from her exploration of the castle, even the dungeons when her parents warned her to not go down there: a secret tunnel. Escape, exactly what it was meant for, Cassandra is sure. And all she needs to do is get there.

Surely there is someone in town who will help her. Flee to… somewhere else, someplace large. Someplace she can get help, to come back, and…. The idea of revenge is strange, an uncertain thing that she doesn't even feel she understands. Revenge for Oliver stealing her shoes as a prank by stuffing skunk cabbage in his pillow is different; her family is worth more than all the skunk cabbage in the world.

But those are distant thoughts, not even dreams yet, because she still has to get down there, and with her walking, all day, because there is nothing else for her to do, she sees a guard at the stairs leading down every single time.

***

"I've been in your little workshop. A very interesting place," Ripley says casually, pacing slowly in front of Percy. "Would you like to tell me about these?" she asks, and holds out several sheets of paper for him to look at.

Percy remains motionless, head hanging, and silent.

After a few seconds, Ripley nods to the man situated behind the chair. "It's only been a day; have you forgotten your manners so soon?"

When the man raises Percy's head by the hair, Ripley slaps him across one swollen and bruised cheek, drawing forth a weak cry.

"Manners, Percival," Ripley says, more stern now, shoving the papers almost directly in his face. "Answer me."

Eyes opening as far as the swelling allows, Percy swallows thickly and says, "Ideas." He licks his dry and split lower lip before swallowing again. "Ma'am."

With a curious sound, Ripley pulls the papers away and looks more closely at them. "A pity. Some of these are very interesting. I'd love to see them in actuality. Would you do that for me, Percival?" She's still looking at the designs. "Make them for me."

There is blood starting to run down his chin from his lip. "Yes, ma'am," he says quietly and with no small amount of effort.

"I think it will be very interesting to see what we can come up with together. Something… advantageous, I'm sure." Smiling to herself, Ripley sets the papers aside and pours a small cup of water. "And because you were, mostly, cooperative…." Holding the cup to Percy's lips, she tips it, and for a moment, the water just runs down the front of him.

The switch turns on in his brain finally, and Percy gulps the water greedily until the cup is empty. It feels like a week since he's had anything to eat or drink, longer since he's slept with any amount of peace. He breathes a sigh of relief that causes pain in his chest, but the relief itself is no less sweet.

"Percival?" An edge of warning in her voice.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Ripley graces him with a cold smile. "You're welcome, but now the Briarwoods require my presence, so why don't you just sit here and think on things?" With a parting pat to the cheek, she leaves the room.

With his arms aching, his wrists burning, his ribs throbbing, and the taste of blood in his mouth, Percy slumps in the chair. The shackles aren't so tight, but still keep him in place. There's no telling how long she plans on leaving him there. A whimper escapes when a rough hand squeezes his jaw, forcing his mouth open.

"Doctor's orders," Ripley's assistant says, and four drops of something vaguely bitter and earthy hit Percy's tongue.

His instant reaction, pure instinct, is to try and spit it out, but he does still have some of his mind left, and he realizes that it's actually healing elixir. Four drops. The only thing four drops can do is…. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, licks the place it was split and has remained open, and feels the tingling.

It is the briefest, most minor respite from his mounting discomforts.

***

They know she's there; Cassandra is certain they're not human, or at least Lord Briarwood isn't. She's seen his teeth, his eyes, the smell of fresh dirt that follows him. They know she's there, but do and say nothing, allowing her to watch from around the corner.

The meeting is not going to their satisfaction, though they never raise their voices. Their physical presences are enough, as they crowd the scared man and look down on him.

"Unacceptable," Lady Briarwood says, sounding both disappointed and bored. The single word is enough; the man cringes and a chill runs down Cassandra's spine.

" _ Double it _ ," Lord Briarwood hisses.

The man holds up his hands to reveal them shaking violently. "I'll do my be-"

"You'll do it, or you'll die."

"Yes, sir," the man whispers, and lowers his head.

Whatever it is, it's important to the Briarwoods, and Cassandra suspects it's behind the door to the dungeons.

***

"Percival, what a mess you've made of yourself."

His head jerks up, though he's unsure if he was asleep or just passed out. And yes, he has made a mess of himself; he's been left in this chair for hours, without anyone even looking in on him. It's disgusting, and humiliating, but at this point, it's not the first time, so he just grunts as Ripley steps in front of him.

"Percival."

There is no rage left in him, no sense of injustice that would make him snap back. Percy is drained, has no answers for the situation he's in, and from there he has no hope. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"It would be so much more convenient if you just cooperated. I'd very much like to work with you, instead of dealing with this mess." Ripley gestures down at him, and if she means the fact that he smells like piss or just him in general isn't clear.

Percy tries something new. "I don't want to be a bother."

"I know you don't, not really. Here, why don't clean you up a bit?" She releases the chain, but not the shackles, and takes hold of Percy's elbow. "Stand up."

The effort is almost too much because his knees are weak and his legs are shaking as his ribs howl in protest. Sweat dots his forehead even in the cool air, immediately turning his skin clammy, and there is a moment where he's absolutely positive he's going to throw up. 

He sways as she refixes the chain, hands in the front now, very little slack. She's taking no chances, or she just wants him to know his place.

Breathing heavily, willing himself  _ not _ to vomit and face Ripley's wrath, Percy takes small steps.

His vision is a narrow, dark tunnel, focused on the gray stones of the floor. There is a vague curiosity in the back of his mind what his feet look like. He's still wearing his boots, though they are nearly ruined now, between the abuse heaped upon his feet and the blood he knows has soaked the inside. They are just boots though, and they still provide him some protection, if only from the temperature and hungry vermin.

If they took his boots, Percy might just will his body to give in. For some reason, having his boots taken from him is the final straw, the point where he becomes less than human, just a thing to be used, probably much in the way he's being used now. In his mind, his bare feet are an existence of misery out of his control.

Boots and feet consume his thoughts as Ripley leads him back to his cell, and directs him inside. It's why his brow furrows when she commands him to strip.

"Don't make me wait; I have other things to do, and my benevolence won't last long."

_ Respect is earned, Percival, but if I haven't earned your respect yet, then I'm afraid there's no hope for you. Have I earned your respect? _

Percy's hand throbs at that memory, the boot that had come down on it. He starts with his tattered shirt, stained with blood and and dirt and filth, and breaks out in gooseflesh. The air is chilly, yes, but it's the ultimate vulnerability in revealing bare skin that bothers him more. Even with the shirt in such a condition he can just pull it away, even over the shackles. There is a grim voice of logic that in his mind that tells him he won't get these things back, that this is part of it all, reducing him to something less than human, and that there is no point in saving his shirt. He drops it to the ground.

The boots though, Percy's hands shake as he reaches down. Is he ready? Has he given up? Glancing up, he sees Ripley purse her lips and look down the hallway as her hand falls on the hilt of the small, sharp knife in her belt.

The look and body language is a promise of pain,  _ more _ pain.

He has. He has given up, because there is nothing else he can do. Resisting only increases his misery for no gain, no reason.

Percy removes his boots, grimaces at what his feet look like, bruised, bloody, toes misshapen now, and refuses to look at Ripley's face. He imagines that she's smiling, but not even in triumph. She doesn't care that she has won; she is simply taking pleasure in his suffering and the power she has over him.

So Percy thinks of the ways he would like to see Anders die as he removes hils filthy trousers. Nothing he can think of is enough, does justice to the traitorous thing the man did; his mind is simply too scattered for creativity at the moment, maybe forever if Ripley has her way. This becomes clear, well more clear, because even with the cold and humiliation, not having his disgusting clothing against his skin feels better.

The smell coming out of his boots, even after such a short amount of time, is rancid, from the blood that hasn't dried, just congealing as his wounds oozed, and the stench from his trousers…. This was not a kindness for him, but a relief for Ripley.

"I have no interest in your body, little boy," Ripley snaps at him. "Turn around and face me."

He's facing the wall without realizing it, and with what he believes is his final show of defiance, the last de Rolo of Whitestone, he turns and stands straight. His hands hang loosely in front of him, but without an attempt to cover himself. His face won't cooperate when he wants to sneer--the right side is too swollen and the left in too much pain--but Percy hopes his stoic acceptance sends some message, even if it's just to the stoic power of the universe as a whole.

Ripley is holding a bucket. "Don't be so proud of yourself," she tells him. "No one will remember you as a martyr. No one will remember you at all." And she throws the contents of the bucket at him.

Immediately Percy gasps, his breath sucked out of him by the frigid water, and he curls in on himself as he slumps against the wall.

"You're welcome for the bath," Ripley says as she shuts and locks the cell door. A long last look at him, and she walks off, her footfalls retreat until there is only silence in the dungeon.

Crouching, touching as little of the stone with his bare skin as he can, Percy wraps his arms around himself. His teeth are chattering, violently now, and he-oh sweet Pelor. There is so little, but he begins licking the drops of water still clinging to his arms and hands. He can survive without food for a long time; that's a scientific fact. It'll be painful and he'll be miserable, but he won't die from hunger pains after two days. Dehydration will do the job much more quickly, and while these drops aren't enough, they are amazing in the moment.

Arms, hands, his shoulders, and legs. He is not quite desperate enough to lick the ground yet.

Percy gathers his trousers, but doesn't put them on. Instead, he folds them with shaking hands, and tucks them under the little pile of straw in the corner. The smell is unavoidable, but that's true of the entire cell; they'll be of minor comfort this way, protecting from the roughness of the stone and a little of the cold. His shirt, while he first considers just putting it back on, becomes a makeshift breechcloth. Another layer of protection for his arse as he spends the majority of his time in the cell on it against the cold stone.

And he thought he'd given up. Not enough, apparently.

***

Cassandra dresses her best, though she's not sure why. Just a game she's playing with herself maybe, where she can pretend the castle is hers. It must be, because nobody else is there. Her favorite dress is dark blue with silver trim that sparkles in bright light; she only ever got to wear it on special occasions, but now there is no one to stop her.

She can wear it whenever she wants.

As she fastens each of the delicate pearl buttons, Cassandra is crying.

The shoes she won't wear though; they're impractical, and she never liked them. Instead, she puts on her boots, the black ones that almost reach her knees, and she always makes sure to keep shiny. Her look is incomplete, nearly ruined, by her hair though. The dress and boots make her look like a noble ready to go out on a walk around the town, but her hair….

There is no one to do her hair, to fix the delicate braids that are loose and frayed, and to pin back her bangs evenly. The best Cassandra can do on her own is undo the braids, the last thing her mother did for her, and brush it out. A gold ribbon holds it back, to keep it from falling her face. Now she just looks like some girl dressing up, not like she should be sleeping in a castle.

"You look very nice, my dear."

Cassandra freezes, her hand still on the latch of her door. "T-thank you," she says at barely a whisper. She doesn't look.

A hand rests briefly on her shoulder before sliding off.

"I don't understand why you've kept that girl-"

"Quiet yourself, Anders. Don't forget you've already served your purpose here."

Bile rises in Cassandra's throat as the two people walk away, and even though she hasn't eaten, skipped the breakfast brought to her room, her stomach gurgles and roils. It's not Lady Briarwood, who terrifies her, though; Professor Anders, and now she knows.

For a moment, she considers going back to her room because her knees feel like water, and at that moment, she knows her legs won't support her if she tries to take a step. But she won't hide; yes, her illusion is ruined for the time, that the castle is hers, but hiding is not something any of her family would have done in her place.

Lord Briarwood looks at her, through her, as if her thoughts are floating above her head, so she tries not to think about things too much, about how she's trying to find a way into the dungeon, watching the guard, seeing if there's a time she can get through the door. But she doesn't think about that, just observes, takes in what she sees and remains passive and unassuming.

***

The blood in his mouth masks any flavor the stale piece of bread might have. In any other circumstance, he wouldn't have eaten, but with Ripley standing over him and this being the only food he's been given since  _ that _ night, Percy doesn't hesitate. It hurts, and he's swallowing his own blood in unhealthy quantities, but he can't stop eating the disgusting mush he makes as he chews.

She won't let him starve, she won't let him die from neglect; the suffering of it is her goal. Percy doesn't know how to fight it, can't resist falling in line with everything she says. Both reason and logic agree with instincts that to survive, this is what he has to do.

_ Vesper grabs his arms hard. "Stop fidgeting. You have to get ready for dinner." She quickly knots the ascot before tucking it into his vest. "Now you look like a proper little shit." She takes his hand and leads him from his room down to the dining hall, where almost everyone has already gathered. _

_ He tugs away from her and frowns throughout the entire meal. Finally at the end, he has the opportunity to ask his mother, "Why do I have to dress like this? It's uncomfortable." _

_ His mother smiles and crouches down in her fancy dress, and unbuttons his vest, then works on the ascot. "Sometimes it's just what we have to do." _

A slap rocks him from whatever place his mind had been going to, somewhere in his memories, of his sister, and his mother's smile.

"If you don't appreciate the food I've brought you, then I suppose you don't need more." Ripley reaches for his hand, to take away what's left of the bread.

Before she can grab it, Percy stuffs the rest of it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing as quickly as he can, grimacing with the pain of it the whole time.

"Percival."

And by the tone of her voice, he knows punishment is coming, so he keeps eating until she grabs the chain that binds his wrists together and yanks  _ hard _ . Sudden movement, violent movement makes every injury suffered scream in protest, and all together force a cry from him. Percy stumbles, almost falls to the floor as his numb toes catch on the stone.

"I was being kind." Ripley pulls him along. "Very generous with you, but you don't seem to appreciate it. You're not listening to me, Percival, and I can't have that." She hauls him, with surprising strength (or he is simply that weak) from his cell to her torture room. "So now you've made me reconsider, which is not a good thing for you."

Percy expects the chair, to be slammed down into it, but Ripley doesn't do that. Instead he's forced to stand against the wall, and she steps right behind him to raise his hands, hooking the shackles on a hook in the wall (from when this was a guard room, and not a chamber of horrors). It's high enough, meant to hold polearms, that his arms are stretched almost completely straight above him, and his front is pressed against the rough stone; the fear of uncertainty crowds out the discomfort of it all.

Looking to the left, trying to see over his shoulder at Ripley, Percy starts to speak.

"No, Percival. You had your chance," Ripley tells him, standing at just the right spot that he can't see her.

He hears something, the sound of leather running against cloth, and furiously tries to figure out what it could be and what is about to come. The answers comes with a sharp cracking noise, and a strip of fire blooming in an instant across his back, right over his kidneys. Percy's entire body jerks at the contact, trying to escape it by forcing himself harder against the wall, and he gasps more out of surprise than pain.

"How many, Percival? This is up to you."

"Wha-"

Another crack, but there's no surprise this time; it's a sharp snap of pain across his shoulder blades, and Percy grunts.

"I'm not counting. You tell me when to stop."

A belt, of course, but a thin one, like one a noblewoman might wear. It's the perfect substitute for when a whip isn't readily available. Those finely cut edges bite into his skin almost like a knife blade as they land across bone, and the end hits like a precisely landed strike right to his damaged ribs. This time, Percy does cry out, but it's weak, even to his own ears, the breath driven from him in the same blow.

Ripley doesn't bother speaking this time, just brings the belt across him, low, at the small of his back and tops of his hips. There's an intensity to the pain, not enough to make Percy lose consciousness, but sharp. All of his skin is tender, soft, but his hip points feel especially sensitive, and he squirms , painfully, against the stone in an effort to escape it.

"I should put the collar back on you until you learn to be obedient," Ripley says, strain her voice just before she grunts and brings the belt across his back again. "I have too much to do; I don't have time to for this."

The belt falls again, and it's a weird sense of disbelief, that this is all a dream, that keeps Percy astoundingly quiet. His brain is doing its best to convince him this is not happening, that pain isn't real, and so he has no reason to cry out. But then the belt across his ribs again, the end striking soundly with a wet  _ thwap _ , and it feels like someone has just kicked him in the side. There is no denying this; Percy forces out a gurgling screech.

Desperation takes hold of him, and he starts pulling against the hook that keep shim in place.

"How many?" Ripley asks, with a frightening lack of emotion. This doesn't bother her; she doesn't care. She is a monster. She hits him again.

Tears begin, running freely down Percy's face as he gulps in the earth-scented stone between strikes.

Again, and he manages a full-throated cry, but he's not screaming. Not yet.

"How many was that, Percival? I want to know how many it takes for you to learn how to follow the rules, to be polite and obedient. How many?"

Percy's mind works furiously through the haze of pain, trying to count how many times she'd struck him. "Eight," he croaks as he sweats and shivers and cries.

He can feel her presence as she steps closer, feel her breath, he thinks, on the back of his neck. Percy hisses, and his body shakes more violently as her finger runs across his back.

"Let's see. You think eight?" So she begins to count, her finger following the line of each strike, fingers pressing against his ribs and making him swallow a sob against the hot, stabbing sensation. He's sure they're not just cracked now.

"Seven. Eight." Ripley stops, and for a single moment, Percy has hope that perhaps this is over, even if it means she kills him.

"Nine. Start counting aloud please." She steps back. "At ten." And she swings.

***

She doesn't know why, doesn't think on it too much, but finds the point where the door is left unguarded for a period of twenty minutes. Cassandra wears her quietest shoes, the soles just soft, scuffed leather, and she waits for the time.

As soon as the guards leave and no one is in sight, Cassandra goes for the door. The handle doesn't turn, but instead of losing her composure, which she wants to do, she pulls out some spare hairpins and kneels.

This is something she'd been practicing for a while now, just for fun, because as the youngest

_ the only _

she has a lot of free time, and she never told anyone, but there wasn't a lock in the castle that's beaten her yet.

It takes Cassandra only a few moments because she's familiar with the lock if not the specific positioning. A solid click, and the handle turns loosely in her grip; the door opens quietly in front of her to reveal well-lit stairs down.

Cassandra pauses, listens, and when she hears nothing, heads down. The air is different the deeper she goes, colder, yes, but it smells different as well. It stinks in ways Cassandra associates with foul things, rotting things.

_ A half-eaten deer, rotting in the sun at the edge of the forest, where she and Vesper have gone to pick wildflowers. The appearance is not half as nauseating as the stench, and Vesper immediately pulls her away from it. The flowers are forgotten as they hurry back to the castle, and Cassandra avoids eating dinner. _

Dread builds in her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs because there is something  _ bad _ here. There is nothing good she will find, Cassandra is sure, but she must investigate, she has to find the passage, and she has no time to waste.

The guard room she passes with a single glance. There is blood on the floor; she doesn't want to know.

The cells, and she freezes, because there are…. The tears begin to fall, but Cassandra remains silent, because she  _ knew _ so perhaps it's less horrible than it would be otherwise, but nevertheless, she recognizes the bodies piled in one cell. More than anything, she wants to go in there, even with the horrid smell, and see them, touch them, wants to futilely check if any are still alive.

_ They are dead. Dead. There's nothing to do about it except escape and live and do  _ something _ about the monsters in the castle later. _

But she won't do that, can't do it. She has to get  _ out _ .

Silently, she hurries past the bodies, hand covering her mouth, heading to where she knows the passage is, when the low light illuminates one of the cells perfectly from her angle of approach. Cassandra pauses while she internally screams at herself to run, and stands at the bars. "Hello?" she asks quietly to the figure in the corner.

The person moves, head rising from where the crown of it was pressed against the wall, pivoting in place.

" _ Percy _ ," Cassandra says, much more loudly than she meant to. She can see now the marks on his back: heavy bruises, split skin, dried blood. "What did they do to you?"

He stares in her direction, eyes unfocused, his glasses nowhere in sight. "Mama? Mama, I'm sorry. Please. I didn't mean to be bad."

She'd rather see him dead, in the cell with the others, than like this. But it lights a fire in her chest, where she is the only one that can help and she  _ must _ . "I'll be back tomorrow, Percy. I swear it." Leaving him is the hardest thing she's ever done, with his broken cries for their mother echoing behind her, but she has to make preparations.

***

"I warned you." He sounds obviously disgusted.

Ripley, with her arms folded, watches Percy, rocking and muttering to himself. "I have time. Better to build from the ground up, in a manner I choose." She steps up to the bars, says loudly,  "Percival, how many was it? How many did you need?"

The muttering ends. "T-twenty-five, ma'am."

"You were very good at counting, and I'm pleased to see how your manners are coming along."

"Thank you, ma'am." He doesn't look at her, just leaves his head pressed against the wall.

For a long moment, Ripley runs her fingers over the rough cloth in her hands, thinking. "Here, Percival, because you were so good. A reward." She flings the cloth at him through the bars. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As the pair walk away, Ripley says, "This will be worth the effort. Not for the Briarwoods, but for my work."

~

Cassandra finds where much of the old clothing has been put away. In a windowless storage room she finds dresses hung with care; a small selection of baby and children's clothing stored in chests made of fragrant wood to keep away the vermin; more chests packed with seasonal wear; and finally what she's truly looking for.

It hurts when she pulls it out, lifts it as high as she can to inspect the shape it's in, because she remembers vaguely her father in this coat. When she was younger, and most vividly she can picture the way the gold buttons gleamed in the sun, as he walked through the center of Whitestone, with her hand in his.

It was replaced several years ago, by a gift that was both more austentatious and more subtle, and this one was tucked away. It's heavy and plenty warm for the weather, with a fur-lined collar and padded lining. There's also decorative dagger she finds, edges dulled but with a point worthy of sticking in an enemy, that Cassandra tucks into her belt. And finally she grabs an old pair of Julius' boots, decorated with silver accents he wore for special functions.

Going into Percy's room is strange. Unlike her own, it's been ransacked, but she doesn't know what was being looked for. Everything is overturned, his closet is empty, and his dresser of plain dark wood has every drawer emptied on the floor with his clothing scattered about. His writing desk is physically broken, and the beautiful rug that covered the cold castle stone is stained with black ink.

Somehow, this simple destruction hurts just as much as the haunting, gnawing  knowledge of her dead family in the back of her mind. But she shoves it all down because it doesn't help, doesn't accomplish anything except make her slow and inattentive. Instead, she gathers up a shirt and trousers, stuffs them into the bundle in her arms, and silently exits.

~

In his moments of fitful rest, his dreams overlap with his memories. The dining hall full of people smiling, but not because of the first appearance of baby Cassandra. No. They're watching him be beat, showering him with polite applause every time he screams. The echoing voice of his father pierces the other noise, offering a toast, and everyone raises their glasses. The words begging for help never leave his mouth, his hand reaching out pinned beneath a boot, and his mother looks at him, baby in her arms.  _ "How many, Percival?" _

Was it eight or nine? He can't remember, and he knows he needs to. He  _ has  _ to.

" _ Percy _ ."

Eight or nine. Eight? Nine?

"Percy?"

It all runs together; they never stopped clapping. Eight, yes? It must have been.

"Percy!"

"Eight," Percy slurs, and covers his head with his hands. "Eight, ma'am."

Cassandra looks toward the heavy door. "I don't know what you're talking about, Percy. It's me; we need to  _ go _ ." When she looks back, her brother is in the same spot, the same position. "Percy,  _ please _ ."

Slowly he shifts, hands dropping, and he looks over his shoulder in Cassandra's direction. His eyes are haunted as he stares at her before he shakes his head and turns away. "You're dead," Percy says quietly, more to himself than to her. "You're dead."

"I'm not. Percy, I'm here, and we need to get out." Cassandra drops her bundle of clothing, pulls out a couple of hairpins, and goes to work on the cell's lock. It's simple, since they're not meant to be locked and left without a guard watching over them, and she gets it open even with shaking hands. "Come on, Percy." The door opens with a quiet squeal. "Percy."

"Shut up," he begs weakly, refusing to look at her. "Please leave me alone. Please."

"Percy, I'm here, and I want to get you out of this place. Away from the Briarwoods. Please." She takes a step forward, before getting the clothing, and entering the cell. "I brought you some clothes. Just… put them on and we can go. We'll hide in town, find someone to help us, then go south. Get as far away from here as we can. Please please please."

The idea of getting close to him in this dark, stinking hole, when he seems more like a hurt animal than a human being, frightens her; Cassandra just holds out the bundle to him. "Please, Percy. I need you. I can't do this by myself."

She's too young. This is too much. She's just a kid; she never even left the castle without an escort, let alone fled across the country on her own. With her eyes filling with tears, Cassandra closes them, and backs away, leaving the cell. Truly, her whole family is lost to her.

"Cass? Is it really you?"

Her eyes fly open, releasing the tears held back to streak down her cheeks. Percy is looking at her, really looking at her now. "Yes! I'm here, and we have to leave! Put these on, and we can get out through the secret passage!"

But he's not really paying attention to what she's saying; Percy is staring at her, unmoving. "I thought everyone…."

"Except me," she answers quietly, still holding out the clothing. "And that's why we have to go. Now. Before the guards come back. Or someone goes looking for me. Percy!"

That seems to spur him to action, and while he's very slow, and moves with obvious anguish, he does stand to approach her. There's an old grain sack wrapped around his waist, revealing everything done to him as a network of fresh wounds, oozing sores, bruises, and visibly broken bones. With each labored step, Percy winces, and sweat starts to stand out on his forehead. By the time he's close enough to reach for the offered clothing, his breathing is labored. The hand that extends shakes, almost violently, as it slides just across Cassandra's forearm.

"You're really real," he says with awe, and starts coughing, spattering the hand he brings up to cover his mouth with blood. "How did-"

"We don't have time for this," Cassandra tells him, and thrusts the clothing at him. "We need to go, and when we get out of the castle, we have to run.  _ Run _ . We can't fight, we can't stop to rest. We just run."

Percy nods, his eyes wide and staring, unblinking, but he makes no move to take the clothing.

The fear is growing with every wasted breath now, and Cassandra looks back over her shoulder. Still nothing. They have time, but it might be just seconds. When she looks back at her brother, and he's looking at her, she hisses, "Percy! Put these on!"

The terrified snarl she feels on her face as she says the words are apparently the one thing that gets him functioning, and he takes the bundle. As soon as her hands are empty, Cassandra finds a spot to watch the hall while remaining as much in the deep shadows as possible. Ignoring the pained noises from Percy is difficult, but for both his modesty and her fear at seeing more of his injuries, she watches the hall, the flickering shadows, listens for anything that indicates people are coming.

They will come, and it will be in a hurry, and Cassandra and especially Percy won't be able to outrun them with such a slim head start.

"Cass? This is for real? Not a trick?"

He sounds so young, and when Cassandra looks back at him to find him fully dressed to look like he's ready to take their father's place, or Julius' place, she forgets how to speak. Sparing just a second to wipe her eyes, she nods, then takes hold of his hand gently, and starts to run. "Pelor help me, if you don't start moving we will  _ die _ in this castle!" she barks when Percy doesn't move at a pace much faster than a walk. "I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to meet them in the afterlife, not until I find some way to kill the Briarwoods!"

Percy's hand tightens around hers. "And Professor Anders," he says, as his brow furrows, and he picks up his speed dramatically. While there's no mistake this is causing him considerable anguish, he keeps up with her as they rush through the dungeon.

"Yes, him too," Cassandra confirms as she finds the proper stones to push, and the wall slides open. Cold, fresh air rushes in, like an inexplicably friendly ghost, and it is a stunning moment of hope. They might be able to do this. It  _ is _ possible.

Out of her belt, tucked against the dagger, she pulls the small make-shift torch she made. "Hold this," she commands, and shoves it into Percy's hand.

For the briefest of moments, she feels his skin, and immediately recoils. It's rough, yes, but that's been true for as long as she can remember. It's more that they feel… broken, both the skin and the bones beneath.  _ How are you still alive? _ she wants to ask, but her thoughts run treacherous, and Cassandra clamps down on them before she can get bitter. As she gets out her fire starting kit, she bites her lip to hold herself in the moment, the moment of their escape.

One strike. A second strike, and the spark catches, bringing the small torch to life, and lighting the tunnel. The smallest victory, one for which Cassandra is grateful, but she doesn't contemplate it. She yanks the torch away from Percy, and continues down the tunnel. "Come on. We can't stop now."

She doesn't see the look on his face or in his eyes as he watches her, the sweat running in rivulets beneath the collar of the coat and the color high on his cheeks. Cassandra's heart beats in time with her chant,  _ Just keep going. _ It drowns out everything else.

Without another word, she starts to go, down through the dark tunnel, slipping on the slick stone, but keeping her footing. "Come on," she says, pulling Percy along. "Keep going. Just keep going. We can get away."

Yes, she's saying it to Percy, but it's just as much for herself as him. Her heart is pounding, and she just wants to run as fast as she possibly can, but, while he's doing his best, Percy is holding her back. It would be so easy to let go of his hand and hurl herself down this tunnel, out into the evening. "Keep going," Cassandra repeats breathlessly.

It feels like miles, but she knows it's nothing close to that, being frightened and disoriented in the darkness. When the tunnel widens and the cut stone beneath her feet turns to dirt, Cassandra starts to slow; they're close, beyond the foundation of the castle now. 

The trick is less complicated here: just an iron lever that she pulls to activate the magically-infused door. Rocks slide apart, and the open ground before the forest begins is revealed.

Percy is yanked forward as Cassandra throws the torch aside, out into the open air, under the cloudless sky with only the brightest stars making themselves known, and their way lit by the stubborn sun not yet set. But it is freedom, and she moves forward with greater purpose.

"Just keep moving. Keep going."

He hears her, his younger sister, practically a little girl, continuously talking under her breath as she pulls him along. He doesn't know what to think, doesn't know if he's capable of thinking. But he does know that she's real, she must be, because her hand has his (the one that doesn't cause pain at even the smallest movements).

Her hand has his, and he can hear her voice.

"Don't stop now. We can make it."

It hurts so much, his vision is blurry, and the blood is pounding in his ears, but he forces himself to keep moving.

"Please, Percy. Run."

No matter how much he wills it, not that Percy is entirely positive he has any will left, because just laying down in the snow sounds fine, he simply can't make himself move faster. Things, his body, don't seem to be synchronizing, where maybe it's all just a habit rather than a conscious effort. "Sorry," he gets out between great gasping breaths. "Can't."

"You can. You  _ have _ to. Just… keep moving. As best you can." Cassandra is short of breath as well, but she's only slowing down for him.

Better to let him go, leave him behind. He's a lost cause, he knows, and he doesn't want to hold her back. At least one of them needs to survive, and she has so much ahead of her. "Leave me."

"No! I can't run for both of us, and I need you. You have to survive. You have to  _ want _ to."

It's true, even if he never admitted it in those words to himself: he doesn't want to live. He doesn't want to have to remember it, any of it. But he moves, forces himself to do so, because he concentrates on Cassandra's voice over everything else, does everything he can to push the rest of it out of his mind. She would do better to leave him as a body to find, use that as a distraction for her own escape, but since she won't do that, he has no choice.

Being a big brother is so much work. He never realized it before.

With heavy legs, leaving his feet to drag through the snow, Percy pushes on. The light is starting to fade as the sun just hits the top of the mountains, and he can feel the warmth of it on his face. For a moment, he closes his eyes, forgets where he is, what he's doing, how it's consuming him.

_ She cups his face in her hands and leans in to kiss his forehead. He wrinkles his nose and squirms away from her. She laughs, ruffles his hair. "Go on then. I'll have a plate sent down; I know it's torture for you to be kept away from your experiments." _

_ "They're not experiments, Mother." But he smiles because Father was not happy about him missing dinner, but she understood why even when she didn't understand the what. _

_ "Of course they're not." Her hand on his cheek for a moment, just a second's worth of warmth, before she spins him around and sends him off down the hallway with a swat to his bum. _

Percy's foot catches on a branch or stump hidden beneath the snow, and he crashes to the ground, face first. Though his hands flew out instinctively to catch himself, they lack real strength, and he's splayed out with his ribs shocking him into stillness with pain. His hand, without Cassandra holding it, is suddenly freezing.

It might be the snow or simply pain he doesn't know how to deal with that turns his vision white.

"Get up!" His little sister seems to take delight in causing him trouble, because the way she grabs the back of his coat, squeezing his shoulder through it, does him no favors. Ripples of unpleasant sensation shoot down his arm from that sensitive point where his arm connects to his torso, making his fingers twitch, and he cradles it to his chest after he gets back to his feet.

And then they're running again, but this time he thinks about his mother, and he listens to his sister's words, and sees a tunnel, greying at the edges, in front of him that he continues to run down. Somewhere, at the end of it, is escape, freedom, revenge.

_ Run. _

_ Keep going. _

_ Don't stop. _

_ Survive. _

BUt he realizes, too late, they haven't been running to town. They're just as far away from it now as when they escaped the castle, and now, through his ragged breathing, thudding heartbeat, and Cassandra's words, he can hear something else in the distance.

They're coming.

He doesn't know what they'll do; there's a river somewhere ahead of them, fed from both the snow melting off the mountain and a spring deep underground, undiscovered by human hands. And it's wide, with no way to cross other than the bridge much closer to town. Options are limited, and he's still not thinking straight, because if he tries to concentrate, the pain in his body comes roaring back with full force. 

Perhaps, when they reach it, Cassandra will have an idea on how to cross. But she's a little girl; how can he ask her for anything? She's already done more than should ever be asked of  _ anyone _ .

"Percy!"

Yes, he knows. He's running as fast as he can, but for his sister, he  _ tries _ . Just a little faster, watching the ground so he doesn't trip again, even though it's a white blur without his glasses. And he can hear the river now, the rushing water, so he turns to tell his sister and

She's limping, and Percy's steps falter, because he sees the long shaft an arrow protruding from her back.

"Cass?" he says, a note of disbelief alongside the concern.

Cassandra inhales sharply, then coughs, and something dark starts to dribble out over her lower lip. "Percy." She reaches for him, but he actually put a decent distance between them without realizing it.

But he extends his hand all the same, coming to a stop, and feeling his knees start to shake with the lack of momentum carrying him on. The river, there's no choice. They can make it on willpower alone. They are the last remaining de Rolos. They  _ must _ .

Her fingers touch his, icy cold the both of them, and Percy closes his hand.

Cassandra cries out, coughs blood onto his chest and stomach, leaving dark stains on his shirt, as one arrow then another sinks into her back. Right at his feet, almost between them, she falls to the snow, and as he stares, it starts to turn red beneath her.

Time grinds to a halt, and Percy wonders if he's standing in the snow looking at his sister on the ground, or if he's still in a cell in the castle. If this isn't reality, if this is the only way his mind can cope to what is happening to him, then he would rather be in real physical agony than seeing this. This is  _ not  _ better. This can't be how he copes, with his escape at the cost of his sister's life.

If Ripley comes in right now and wakes him up, this will all disappear like fog in bright sunlight.

But the snow just keeps growing more red, drinking up more of Cassandra's blood, and nothing is changing.

The true wake-up is the arrow sailing past him, flying close enough that he can hear it cut through the air, and time collapses back in on him, everything moving once more faster than he can comprehend. Gods,  _ Cassandra _ . Percy starts to bend over, reaching down to her, when another arrow flies over him, right where his head would be otherwise. Then another, and the panic rises, because he can still hear her.

_ Run. Survive. _

He turns, keeping his head down, and moves as quickly as he can to the high bank of the river. There's no time to consider how he'll do this, so he simply hops down the frozen bank, immediately hits a protruding rock that sends a wave of blinding pain shooting up his leg and right to his brain. All control of his limbs is gone, like a flame blown out, and Percy falls the rest of the way into frigid water.

The shock of it steals the air from his lungs even as he is submerged, and then

_ darkness _

**Author's Note:**

> Took this in an obviously different direction than the other stories I've read that cover the same events. I liked the idea of Ripley basically just brute forcing this rather than using any kind of precision. BECAUSE. I wanted to tie Taliesin's/Percy's reactions to both getting the Slayer's Take brand, as well as putting on Senokir's irons to his past. There was also the mystery of why Ripley kept him alive, but still bothered torturing him. The Briarwoods had no use for him really, so it must have been some reasoning from her; use of torture in an effort to break and re-condition is my (dark) jam.
> 
> I also wanted to look at why Percy left Cassandra behind. Her reaction to him when he returns to Whitestone is understandable, but of course I don't think anyone believes he callously left her behind. My preferred way to handle it would have been for him to simply keep going because he hears her voice, thinking she's right behind him, when she's actually on the ground and the voice is just in his head. But since he witnessed her getting shot, I had to wrench it around a bit; it would have been better the other way, but I'm not changing events as they're explicitly told (at least in this story).
> 
> I have an idea for something short regarding that "missing" time for slightly more explanation & character work. Not sure if/when that'll happen.
> 
> Comments & criticism welcome.
> 
> echoislesfandom.tumblr.com


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